Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. With us it ambled, trotted, and galloped all through October. (It never stood still until the morning of November the twenty-second, and it seems, to me at least, that it hasn’t really moved since then.)
We had long ago finished cataloging our strengths and weaknesses. Alexander followed Meredith and declared his ability to frighten people rather proudly, but confessed the concern that he was the villain in his own life’s story. Wren presented a double-edged sword: she was intimately in touch with her emotions but, as a result, too sensitive for such a competitive artistic environment. Richard told us what we all knew already—that he was unfailingly confident, but his ego made him difficult to work with. Filippa made her statement without any trace of embarrassment. She was versatile, but because she didn’t have a “type,” she would be stuck playing secondary characters forever. James—speaking slowly, deep in thought, seeming not to even see the rest of us—explained that he immersed himself completely in every character he played, but sometimes he couldn’t quite leave them behind and learn to be himself again. By the time my turn came we had grown so numb to one another’s insecurities that my saying I was the least talented person in our year didn’t seem to surprise anyone. I couldn’t think of any great strength I had and admitted as much, but James interrupted me to say, “Oliver, you make every scene you’re in about the other people in it. You’re the nicest person and the most generous actor here, which is probably more important than talent anyway.” I immediately shut my mouth, certain he was the only one who thought so. Oddly, nobody else argued.
On October 16, we took our usual places in the gallery. Outside, a perfect autumn day had lit the trees around the lake aflame. The blaze of color—tawny orange, sulfurous yellow, arterial red—shimmered upside down on the surface of the water. James peered out the window over my shoulder and said, “Apparently Gwendolyn has the art classes stewing up stage blood to splatter all over the beach.”
“Won’t that be fun.”
He shook his head, mouth quirked up at one corner, and slid into the chair opposite mine. I pushed a cup and saucer toward him and watched as he lifted the cup to his lips, still smiling. The others rattled in from the hall, and the spell of lazy tranquility faded into the air like steam.
Officially, we had left off our lessons on Caesar and moved on to Macbeth, but Caesar’s familiar words leapt readily to our lips, and with them came a kind of bristling tension. Weeks of difficult rehearsals and Gwendolyn’s psychological puppeteering had made neutrality impossible. That day, what began as a simple discussion of tragic structure quickly devolved into an argument.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Alexander said, halfway through our lesson, impatiently pushing his hair out of his face. “What I’m saying is that the tragic structure is staring you in the face in Macbeth; it makes Caesar look like a telenovela.”
Meredith: “What the hell does that mean?”
Frederick: “Language, please, Meredith.”
Wren sat up straighter on the floor, returning her teacup to the saucer between her knees. “No,” she said, “I understand.”
Richard: “Then explain it to the rest of us, won’t you?”
Wren: “Macbeth’s a textbook tragic hero.”
Filippa: “Tragic flaw: ambition.”
Me: [sneeze]
“And Lady M is a textbook tragic villain,” James added, glancing from Wren to Filippa, soliciting their agreement. “Unlike Macbeth, she doesn’t have a single moral qualm about murdering Duncan, which paves the way for every other murderous thing they do.”
“So what’s the difference?” Meredith said. “It’s the same in Caesar. Brutus and Cassius assassinate Caesar and set themselves up for disaster.”
“But they’re not villains, are they?” Wren asked. “Cassius maybe, but Brutus does what he does for the greater good of Rome.”
“Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more,” James recited.
Richard made an impatient sort of noise and said, “What’s your point, Wren?”
“Her point is my point,” Alexander said, shifting forward to perch on the very edge of the couch, long legs bent so his knees were almost as high as his chest. “Caesar’s not in the same category of tragedy as Macbeth.”
Meredith: “So, what category is it in?”
Alexander: “Fuck if I know.”
Frederick: “Alexander!”
Alexander: “Sorry.”
“I think you’re making it too complicated,” Richard said. “Caesar and Macbeth have the same setup. Tragic hero: Caesar. Tragic villain: Cassius. Wishy-washy middleman: Brutus. I guess you could equate him with Banquo.”
“Wait,” I said. “What makes Banquo—”
But James interrupted: “You think Caesar is the tragic hero?”
Richard shrugged. “Who else?”
Filippa pointed at James. “Um, duh.”
“It has to be Brutus,” Alexander said. “Antony makes it plain as day in Five-Five. It’s your cue, Oliver, what does he say?”
Me: “This was the noblest Roman of them all:
All the conspirators, [sneeze] save only he,
Did that they did in envy of great Caesar;
He only, in a general honest thought
And common good to all, made one of them.”
“No,” Richard insisted. “Brutus can’t be the tragic hero.”
James was affronted. “Why on earth not?”
Richard almost laughed at the look on his face. “Because he’s got like fourteen tragic flaws!” he said. “A hero’s only supposed to have one.”
“Caesar’s is ambition, just like Macbeth,” Meredith said. “Simple. Brutus’s only tragic flaw is that he’s dumb enough to listen to Cassius.”
“How can Caesar be the hero?” Wren asked, glancing from one of them to the other. “He dies in Act III.”
“Yes, but the play’s named after him, isn’t it?” Richard said, the words and his breath coming out together in a rush of exasperation. “That’s how it goes in all the other tragedies.”
“Really,” Filippa said, voice flat. “You’re going to base your argument on the title of the play?”
“I’m still waiting to hear what these fourteen flaws are,” Alexander said.
“I didn’t mean there are exactly fourteen,” Richard said, thinly. “I meant it would be impossible to isolate one that leads to him skewering himself.”
“Couldn’t you argue that Brutus’s tragic flaw is his insurmountable love of Rome?” I asked, looking across the table at James, who was watching Richard with narrowed eyes. Frederick stood in front of the blackboard, lips pursed, listening.
“No,” Richard said, “because besides that you’ve got his pride, his self-righteousness, his vanity—”
“Those are all essentially the same, as you of all people ought to know.” James’s voice cut across Richard’s and the rest of us were startled into silence.
“What was that?” Richard asked. James clenched his jaw and I knew he hadn’t meant to say so much out loud.
“You heard me.”
“Yes, I fucking did,” Richard said, and the cold snap of his voice made every hair on the back of my neck stand up. “I’m giving you a chance to change what you said.”
“Gentlemen.” I’d nearly forgotten Frederick was there. He spoke softly, faintly, and for a moment I wondered if the shock of it might knock him out. “Enough.”
Richard, who had been leaning forward like he might leap off the couch and throw himself at James, eased back against the cushions again. One of Meredith’s hands alighted on his knee.
James averted his eyes. “Richard, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Richard’s face was blank at first, but then the anger vanished and left him looking dejected. “I suppose I deserve it,” he said. “Never properly apologized for my little outburst on off-book day. Truce, James?”
“Yes, of course.” James looked up again, shoulders sinking an inch in relief. “Truce.”
After a slightly awkward pause in which I exchanged quick baffled glances with Filippa and Alexander, Meredith said, “Did that just happen? For God’s sake, it’s just a play.”
“Well.” Frederick sighed, removed his glasses, and began to polish them on the hem of his shirt. “Duels have been fought over less.”
Richard raised an eyebrow at James. “Swords behind the refectory at dawn?”
James: “Only if Oliver will be my second.”
Me: “I’ve hope to live, and am prepared to die.”
Richard: “Very well, Meredith can be mine.”
Alexander: “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Rick.”
Richard laughed, all apparently forgiven. We returned to our debate and proceeded civilly, but I watched James out of the corner of my eye. There had always been small rivalries between us, but never before such an open display of hostility. With a sip of tea I persuaded myself that we were all simply overreacting. Actors are by nature volatile—alchemic creatures composed of incendiary elements, emotion and ego and envy. Heat them up, stir them together, and sometimes you get gold. Sometimes disaster.
